


Wrong Lifelines

by junes_discotheque



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Guilt, M/M, Office Sex, Spanking, Weird Fluff, this is really inadvised
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 02:00:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junes_discotheque/pseuds/junes_discotheque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's probably not the best idea to use Darby as a Harvey-replacement, but since when have any of Mike's ideas been good?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrong Lifelines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Magnetism_bind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnetism_bind/gifts).



It's dark in the Pearson Darby offices. Everyone else has gone home for the night, and the energy-saving lights have switched themselves off. There's just Mike, sitting under a dim florescence, his computer doing a better job of illuminating the payment histories he's going through than the bulbs. Not that it helps much. His eyes are swimming and the numbers are running together and whoever thought it was a great fucking idea to highlight every other line in blue must have been particularly sadistic.

According to his phone, it's almost eleven.

He scrubs at his eyes.

“You know, I appreciate the dedication, but perhaps you should go home and get some rest.”

For one wild, stupid moment Mike thinks it's Harvey standing there and frowning at him disapprovingly. Then he blinks and comes to his senses and it's just Darby, looking at him with an unreadable half-smile.

“Can't,” Mike grumbles. “Need to finish this.”

“For Harvey?” Mike doesn't answer. He doesn't need to. Darby walks around his cubicle and steals a chair from the neighboring one. It used to be Harold's. He can't remember the new kid's name. “Of course, for Harvey.”

“It's the only way—I have to prove I'm useful.”

“You want to win his case so he has to stop being angry with you?”

Mike shakes his head. No. What he wants is for Harvey to yell at him, to call him every awful thing he can think of and then keep going, to maybe throw a few punches. But Harvey won't. Mike's not even worth a kick right now. “I just want him to fucking hit me and get it over with,” Mike mutters, more to himself than to Darby, and is kind of surprised when Darby doesn't even flinch.

“Would that make you feel better?”

“It has in the past.” Darby raises an eyebrow. “No, not with Harvey. He did say I got off easy, though.” He doesn't know why he's telling Darby this. But it does make him feel a little better, in a way that he isn't entirely comfortable with. “Louis patched me up.”

“Sounds to me like Harvey's doing you a great disservice.”

Mike shakes his head vehemently. “No, it's me who—I fucked up. I tried to help him but all I ended up doing was betraying him and I don't know how to fix it.”

“Maybe I can help.” Darby leans forward and rests his arms on his knees. “And perhaps I can convince you to go home.”

“I just wish he would fucking punish me already,” Mike blurts out. Fuck. He has no filter anymore, does he?

Darby's expression hardens and Mike can't decide if he wants to apologize and flee or see if Darby's obvious disapproval helps. Because, frankly, it might. And it's eleven o'clock at night and the office is empty and it feels a little bit like the Twilight Zone and he really doesn't give a fuck anymore.

“Downton Abbey. I told you, I abhor spoilers. And yet, you spoiled me anyway.” Darby's accent affords his voice a sort of mild, casual air, or perhaps that's just his English propriety. It doesn't matter anyway, as he is still looking at Mike with that same, unyielding stare. He remembers that this is the man whose name is next to Jessica's on their door, the man who convinced her into a merger, the man who will likely be the one to destroy him if the truth about Mike ever gets out.

Mike gulps. “Yeah. Ah. Sorry about that.”

“Oh, you will be.”

Darby's hand is strong on Mike's wrist, almost bruising, and Mike doesn't even resist as Darby tugs him over his lap and rests a hand on his ass. He's only a little grateful that Darby is letting him remain clothed, though he's not wearing boxers (laundry day was supposed to be three days ago and he kept forgetting) and his pants are painfully thin.

“How many strokes do you think you deserve?” Darby asks. Mike tries to answer, but all that comes out is a strangled groan. He can't remember numbers anyway. Darby laughs. It's not unkind. “Until you are finished, then.”

Mike yelps, startled, when the first stroke skims over his ass. He's just aware enough to register it was barely a tap and his face flushes with embarrassment. But Darby doesn't even comment. The next stroke is considerably harder and makes Mike gasp.

Darby sets a rhythm then, hard, even strokes that drive every thought from his mind except the ones focused on how his ass burns and his cock aches. The spanks drive him into Darby's lap and he squirms, panting, desperate to escape Darby's punishing hand—but all that does is cause agonizing friction against his cock and Mike wishes desperately Darby would remove his pants and touch him.

And then it stops. Darby's arm still keeps Mike pinned to his lap, but the spanking has stopped. The brutal thoughts come crashing back—how he betrayed Harvey, and Donna, and he doesn't know how to fix it, and—

“I had a feeling that mind of yours wouldn't be shut off that easily,” Darby is saying above him. Mike is shifted slightly as Darby leans over to grab something out of his bag. “Luckily, I am always prepared.”

Mike feels something hard and flat on his ass, and he twists around to see Darby holding a large hairbrush against his pants. He shudders. 

“I will not touch you any more than this,” Darby says, rubbing Mike's lower back. “But all the same, do feel free to come, if you are so inclined.”

Mike whimpers and buries his burning face against Darby's leg. Oh, god, he's never going to be able to look at the man again, is he? At least not without remembering.

Darby paddles him with the same quick, even strokes he used before, but the hard, flat surface of the brush combined with his already-pink ass turns Mike's soft grunts into pained yelps in no time at all. Darby doesn't seem to mind, though he does paddle him harder, as though he wants to see how loud Mike can get before he breaks.

Everything falls away, even the pain, so that all Mike knows is the hard whack of the hairbrush against his ruined slacks and distant screams that are probably his but don't sound like his. And then everything goes white for a bit, and the next thing Mike knows, he's draped over Darby's lap and his pants are soaked and his ass is throbbing. He whimpers.

“Shh, now,” Darby is saying. He's got Mike's shirt untucked and is rubbing soothing circles against the bare skin. “How are you feeling?”

Mike makes a soft garbled noise. 

“You're a bit farther down than I anticipated,” Darby murmurs. “Certainly in no shape to ride that bike of yours home, and I cannot in good conscience put you in a taxi. Luckily, my couch happens to be quite comfortable, and I have no qualms about failing to return home.”

Darby is saying words. Mike's not entirely sure what they mean, but they sound nice, and frankly, he'd be content to just lie here forever and let Darby talk to him. 

Then the world is tilting, and he panics, grabbing blindly.

“Whoa, careful now,” Darby says. “We're just going to my office. Is that acceptable?”

Mike nods and clings to Darby's jacket.

He's fairly sure Darby isn't strong enough to carry him, but he also finds himself lying face-down on Darby's soft couch without any memory of walking. And considering how badly his ass hurts, it might be completely reasonable that Darby carried him.

Mike dozes a little, barely aware of Darby removing his stained pants and running a wet washcloth over his cock. A cooling salve follows, rubbed into what must be dark bruises, and Mike sighs contentedly. 

He falls asleep.

~ * ~

The next morning, Harvey Specter barges into Darby's office to see Mike fast asleep, curled up under a blanket, and Darby sipping tea across from him.

“Ah, good morning,” Darby says, as if it's perfectly normal. “I found your boy dead to the world at his desk and thought I might make him more comfortable. He truly is remarkable.” He hands Harvey a file. “This was what he was working on. Said it's something you need.”

The dismissal is obvious, but Harvey can't make himself leave. He may not know specifics, but he's walked in on the aftermath of enough office trysts to know one when he sees it. Especially since Mike is clearly not wearing any pants under that thin, almost translucent blanket.

“Was there anything you needed?” Darby asks.

Harvey shakes his head, quickly coming back to himself. “No,” he says, and doesn't flee at all.

~ * ~

Darby's next sip of tea has the warm, subtle taste of victory.


End file.
